


Strut Right by With My Tail in the Air

by OriginalCeenote



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Apartment AU, Bucky Barnes is a good neighbor, Cats, M/M, No Smut, Puddin' Cat is a great matchmaker, Sam Wilson is a good brother, Tumblr Prompt, the author is a horrible person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 08:07:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7306828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam took temporary custody of his sister’s spoiled cat out of the goodness of his heart. Spoiled, and increasingly plump. (Hmmmmm…) Who knows where Puddin’ has been wandering, and who has been enticing her with treats? Sam begins to suspect his striking new neighbor across the way…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strut Right by With My Tail in the Air

**Author's Note:**

  * For [debwalsh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/debwalsh/gifts).



> This was inspired by a list of “Apartment AU” prompts out on Tumblr this week. I picked “My cat only keeps going to your apartment because you feed him, you know… It’s like you’re encouraging him on purpose…” I also had a yen to write some Bucky and Sam. I don’t know why.
> 
> Also dedicated to debwalsh, because I love her Stucky stories and pictures of her cats.

Puddin' was looking far too smug and satisfied with herself lately. Sam realized this as the smoky gray Persian hopped up onto the couch beside him, crawled onto his lap just long enough to use his shoulder as a stepping stone onto the top ledge. "Pardon me, Your Highness. Was I in your way?" he muttered to her as she curled up in a ball beside his ear and began to flick her tail against the tweedy upholstery. Its tip barely tapped Sam each time, just enough to annoy him. It was one of the cat's more frequent and annoying hobbies, along with digging her claws into Sam's lap on those rare occasions where she would let him pet her at all, coughing up hairballs in the bottom of his closet, and waking him up a half an hour before his morning alarm by walking across his face. It wasn't like Sam didn't like cats. His sister banked on that when she left Puddin' with him while she moved in with her fiancé to an apartment on a short lease that unfortunately didn't allow pets.

The problem was, Puddin' wasnt fond of _him_. Ray-Anne spoiled that cat rotten after adopting her from a shelter. To Ray-Anne's credit, Puddin' needed every ounce of TLC she could get. When they met, Sam peered down into the cardboard crate and winced, appalled at the kitten's state. She was scrawny, had a broken front tooth and a deep, painful-looking notch in her ear where she'd been attacked by an older cat. The kitten also appeared to be extremely pissed off. Narrowed yellow eyes glared up at Sam, the message clear: _I am not amused, Human._

"That... is the most evil creature I've ever laid eyes on." 

Ray-Anne chuckled as she reached down and scratched the kitten behind its good ear. "Be nice. She's sensitive. She's mad because they had to bathe and shave her a little while ago. Her fur was all matted up. She was rescued from a pet hoarder's house."

"Ouch. Poor little crumb snatcher... hey!" Sam hissed and snapped his hand back up out of the crate, wringing it from the sting of the kitten's teeth sinking into his flesh. He stared down in surprise, and his eyes flitted between the kitten and his sister. "Seriously??" He'd risked one tiny little rub of the kitten's head and got bit for his troubles. The kitten glared back up at him with full reproach.

"She's particular. We're learning this," Ray-Anne explained. "She just needs some love."

To his sister, love meant mountains of cat toys that she kept in a laundry basket in her living room. It meant Iams food by the crate and an odor-controlling, clumping cat litter that she ordered from Amazon. It meant referring to Puddin' as her "fur baby" and bragging about all of her kitteny milestones as though she was a preschooler who had just learned to write her name and use the big-girl potty. It meant knowing that Puddin' kept his sister on a "schedule" of when she wanted to be let outside. It meant that guests were told not to sit on the left side of the couch or the rocking chair with the blue cushion. Those were Puddin's. _Everything_ was Puddin's.

It took a handful of months for the kitten to stop making a beeline for the space under Rae-Anne's bed whenever company came over. Sam watched, appalled, as the cat jumped up onto the back of his sister's brocade upholstered dining room chair like a little mountain climber and proceeded to claw it to ribbons. Sam shooed her down, earning himself a hiss of warning from the furball and his sister's resulting scold.

"She's fine," she assured him. "Kittens do that."

"Ray-Anne. That's your _furniture._ "

She shrugged. "Sometimes, you have to let these things go, Samuel."

"Let things go?" He gave her his Sunday-best _Are you shitting me?_ look. He gestured broadly to the carpeted, three-story kitty condo in the corner. "So, what? You spent a hundred bucks on that thing, just to use it as a doorstop?"

"She sleeps in it at night once in a while, when she needs her space," Ray-Anne assured him with a fond smile on her face. "Or whenever Truman kicks her out," she amended. Sam could get behind that. Ray-Anne's boyfriend indulged her to the point where he went out and paid hundreds of dollars on _allergy shots_ when Ray-Anne announced that she planned to adopt. As much as he loved Sam's sister, though, Truman had his limits, and he reached one of them when Puddin' took to curling up on _his_ pillow in the middle of the night and waking up with the cat's tail - or worse, its entire hindquarters - in his face. Once in a while, Sam would watch Truman tease the cat with a dangling toy for a minute and hazard the quickest, briefest scratch behind its ears, knowing it was a gamble. Puddin's moods turned on a thin dime. Sam learned not to trust the cat's lean-and-squint for more than about five seconds when he risked petting her himself. It was difficult not to touch her when she had such a pleasingly thick, lush coat of fur, but Sam reminded himself that predators who enticed and trapped their prey were often the most beautiful.

The cat began to purr by Sam’s ear, poking it briefly with her nose. “Are we in the mood to be civil?” he asked, tone dry as he eyed her, no nonsense in his face to be found. Puddin’ mewed once and face-checked him with the corner of her mouth. All right, someone clearly wanted attention, or to sucker him; Sam could never tell which, half the time. Sam reached up and gently scritched beneath her chin. Her purr increased its volume, and she gave him a satisfied squint. He stopped and went to turn the page in his book, and Puddin’ took umbrage by poking him with her paw for more. “Seriously?” he muttered. “I get settled in with a good book, and _now_ you want some lovin’?” Puddin’ meowed up at him and face-checked him again. He twisted around and gave her a more thorough rub, carefully avoiding her bad ear, which she appreciated.

Then he leaned closer and sniffed, making Puddin’ instinctively jerk her head back. She scowled at him – that was the only way Sam could ever describe that look – and he scowled back. “Why do you smell like tuna?” Puddin’ meowed again, this time put out by his accusatory tone, and she leapt down from the couch and stalked off down the hall, no doubt to sleep under his bed.

“Fickle. Nice job, Ray-Anne. You _had_ to adopt the Kim Kardashian of cats and leave her with me.”

*

To be fair, Puddin’ was growing on Sam, and Sam figured that he was wearing her down, too. Slowly. There was also something reassuring about coming home to another entity that depended on him and who was a (slightly) captive audience. Rae-Anne visited a couple of days a week to grill him about her eating habits and check the cat over for fleas, bring over the occasional toy or kitty treat, and to get her fur baby fix. Sam told himself that he wasn’t jealous of what a big kiss-up Puddin’ was when his sister came ‘round, flopped across her lap and acting like Sam never gave her any love.

“Awwwww. Is Puddy lonely? Does he need some sugar? Yes, she does. Yessss, sheeee doeessssss. Oh, doodness… whookit da pwetty kitty. Whook at her. Whook at widdle her.” It was sickening. Saccharine and cloying, and good sweet Lord, Sam just couldn’t. 

“I just can’t,” he said aloud. “Never utter those things again in my presence. That was horrible.”

“What? We’re just having an engaging conversation.” Puddin’s answering meow earned her Sam’s deadpan look. She just purred and purred like a little motor, tail flopping up and down against the arm of the chair, and when she rolled over for a belly rub, Sam was just done. The cat faked him out once - _once_ \- and he gave that tempting, roly-poly cat feline gut the slightest little rub, only to have a hissing ball of cat attacking his hand with extreme prejudice and her pronounced overbite.

The worst part, though, was Puddin’ favorite parlor trick of running out to greet his sister – how as that fair? – and literally running up her body, making a beeline up onto her shoulder, where she would perch like a frickin’ _parrot_ and then groom his sister’s hair. “Oh, that’s how it is?” he asked, arms folded and perhaps a teeny bit jealous.

“She uses her claws when she does that, mind you. Don’t forget about the _claws_ ,” she told him, and she winced as one of them dug into her neck, but she still indulged her cat. Sam went back to fixing dinner, completely done with it all.

So, Puddin’ had Sam trained. He knew that he had to hover over her food dish once it was filled to watch her take the first bite, or otherwise she would follow him away from the bowl, meowing the entire way. She also refused to drink more than a sip or two out of her water dish; she only liked drinking out of the bathroom sink. Sam dutifully ran the tap at a thin drizzle, and Puddin’ would haul herself up onto the edge of the sink, walk herself halfway down into it with her front paws, turn her head to the side and take generous, thirsty laps. Sam would let her drink her fill of it for a minute, then push down the stopper to let it fill up until there was about a quarter of a cup before turning it off. The cat would stare up at him accusingly, but he would flick his finger in the shallow water. “C’mon, now. You’re the one who’s thirsty.” Puddin’ would make almost nasal-sounding purrs, nudge his hand with her nose, then dip her head down to drink. It was a routine that never (well, kind of) got old.

The thought occurred to Sam one day while he was folding laundry in the hallway that the cat was looking… fluffier. Fuller. She paused for a moment, sized up the ledge of the dryer, and leapt up onto it while it was still warm as Sam unloaded his clothes. “That took planning. Look at you. Was that difficult? Giddown, kitty.” He didn’t want her hair all over his clean stack of t-shirts, and Sam gently shooed her off. She promptly jumped back up, and Sam sighed, moving his stack to the top of the washer instead. He glanced at her again. She _did_ look plumper, he was sure of it. “Hmmmm.” He reached over and picked her up for a moment, hefting her in both hands. Puddin’ wasn’t amused.

“Mrowr.”

“Yeah, yeah. What’ve you been _eating_?” He leaned in again and smelled her again. “Tuna. Where have you been getting tuna?”

“Mowrrr.”

“You ain’t tellin’ Uncle Samuel, huh? Not gonna fess up?” He deposited the cat back on top of the dryer and went back to his folding. The cat slowly closed her eyes, hunkering down for a nap. Someone was sneaking Puddin’ treats on the down-low. 

*

He shared that thought with Ray-Anne during one of her “custody” visits. “At least it’s just a little tuna,” she said. “It’s a little rich, though. As long as they aren’t giving her milk, she should be fine. Too much milk isn’t good for her. Gives her the farts.”

That, Sam thought, explained a _lot_.

*

Sam lived in a quiet neighborhood – sort of quiet, except for the big blond guy on the sharp Ducati who left every day for work at the crack of dawn, roaring out of the lot – and he was on his third year of renewing his lease on the tiny two-bedroom unit in his four-plex. He lived far enough over from the “college town” avenues down the road to not worry _too_ much about having his car broken into, but he still armed the alarm every night when he got home from work, and he kept his mountain bike inside his apartment in the second bedroom. Once in a while, he would hear his neighbor, Alison, rehearsing with her friend Lila on their electric keyboard, but at least they didn’t do that late into the night. They adored Puddin’, constantly cooing over her, but she never lingered long there that Sam could tell. He doubted that they were kicking down with canned fish; Alison lived on a fat-free yogurt budget and was still paying off her student loans.

Once in a while, he would wave to his neighbors, Stan and Joanie, from their balcony while Joanie watered her window box garden and potted ficus. They owned a small Yorkshire terrier. Stan wasn’t fond of cats, often complaining about a black tom cat from the neighboring complex that kept spraying his car and napping on the hood, leaving little paw prints behind. Sam doubted that they were the culprits. 

Across the way, Sam often heard Clint Barton playing his old sixties rock classics while he waded in his kiddie pool and read his magazines. He also had a gift for burning his barbecue to a crisp, and the smell would often travel to Sam’s balcony, making him cough. Sam often wondered why his wife, Natasha, wouldn’t just take the tongs and mitt from him before the damage was done, but who knew? Maybe she _liked_ blackened chicken. They were a nice enough couple, if a little eccentric. Once in a while, Sam would stop by with dinner if Clint ordered the Pay-ver-View fight, and they would regale him with stories of where they had traveled while Nat was still enlisted in the army. Sam knew there were things they weren’t telling him about their time in Budapest, and he had the feeling he didn’t want to know. Clint and Natasha also owned a lab/pit mix named Lucky, also known as “Pizza Dog.” The dog thought it was his personal mission to protect his masters from the evils of every sentient being who passed Clint and Nat’s wooden gate by barking up a frenzy. Sam was impressed that the landlord hadn’t made them get rid of the dog, but they never got so much as a sternly worded letter. Then again, Sam remembered, _no one_ dared cross Natasha Barton-Romanoff. Not if they were smart. Nat didn’t mind cats, certainly, and Puddin’ actually _liked_ her. Clint, on the other hand, usually earned the cat’s disdainful stare and would mutter a wounded “Hey! What gives?” when she would dart out from beneath his touch.

“She’s fickle,” Sam would remind him.

“She’s _female_ ,” Barton countered. “Sheesh. Ow…” Because of course that earned him a pinch from Nat when she paused from cleaning one of his hunting bows.

That left one more potential suspect, but Sam shook it off as soon as the thought even occurred. It _couldn’t_ be him. 

James Barnes occupied the last unit in the four-plex, and his favorite hobby was turning Sam into a tongue-tied mess. Sam prided himself on being a people person. In his occupation as a high school psychologist, he had to be, and he thought he was usually pretty good at reading people. 

Usually.

Sam reasoned that he was usually smoother, too, but so far, he’d managed to do all of the following in the presence of one James Barnes (and the list wasn’t all-inclusive):

1) Forget his own name. Stammer like he was driving over bumpy road when he finally remembered it. Earned himself a smirk that turned his insides into goo as a result.  
2) Trip over the edge of the sidewalk stepping up with a full bag of groceries when he saw him coming back from the tiny complex pool in damp swim trunks, his long, dark hair slick and dripping down his broad back.  
3) Fall off the edge of the sidewalk stepping _down_ this time, when James caught his eye at the last minute and waved while he was checking his mail, wearing a _ridiculously_ snug t-shirt that showed off his beefy arms. Sam thanked his lucky stars that he managed not to sprain his ankle.  
4) Drool.  
5) Get _caught_ drooling.  
6) Make small talk about the weather while trying not to stare at his pecs in said tight shirt. (Talk to his face, Samuel. You know better than that.) Earn himself a raised eyebrow in response

But that was as good as it got. He didn’t chat up the neighbors much, which included Sam, and he seemed to come and go pretty quickly. Sam knew he worked the night shift at his job as a hospital dispatcher, and that he saw and heard things from his calls that would curl Sam’s hair (if he had that much of it to curl).

It would have been easier if he wasn’t so damned attractive. James was tall, fair-complected and _stunning_ , with a patrician profile and knife-sharp cheekbones, a devil’s cleft in his chin, and a temptingly thick head of long, dark hair that hung just past his shoulders. Once in a while, he pulled the top half of it back from his face with an elastic; that was his “weekend hair.” On nights where he worked, he left his apartment in button-downs and khakis, or comfortable henleys and scrub pants, badge clipped to his pocket, and that glorious hair skinned back in a ponytail, emphasizing his bone structure and revealing the line of his neck. 

He caught Sam cursing up a storm as he left for work one morning, tripping all over himself to avoid stepping on Puddin’ as she darted between his feet to be let out. “ShitshitSHOOT… cat! FUCK!” Sam brandished his foot, drawing it back with the promise of a swift kick that he would never give her, granted, but he didn’t need to be startled first thing in the morning, and _definitely_ not in front of James, who was trying not to laugh as he crunched his keys into his own lock.

“Morning,” he called over in that deep, ridiculous voice that recalled leaning in closer to him at a corner table of a crowded, dark dive bar. Sam was _so_ gone over this guy.

Sam waved weakly, hoping it looked casual. “Cat. Wanted out.”

“Looks like it.”

“How was, uh… work?”

“Work was work. No stabbings,” he offered. “So good, I guess.”

“I guess,” Sam agreed. James’ eyes were crinkling at the corners, a hint of a smile on his lips, and damn it, Sam, don’t stare at his mouth… 

“What’s its name?”

“Huh?”

“Your cat.”

“Oh. Puddin’,” Sam told him.

“Pudding?” James chuckled. “Girl cat?”

“Uh-huh.” And Sam relaxed for a minute, huffing a laugh. “And it’s ‘Puddin’.’ You don’t add the ‘g.’”

“Ah. Got it.” Sam noticed now that he had a very faint accent. It was sexy as hell.

“Oh,” James told him, remembering something, “just to let you know, try to avoid going down Market Street from the freeway. There was a big wreck. That was the last call that I took before I clocked out. People were rubber-necking trying to get a look.”

“That’s fine. Thanks for the tip. I actually don’t have to take the freeway to work. I’m right downtown at the high school.”

“Oh. You teach at Carter Prep?”

“Nope. School psychologist.”

“Wow.” He looked impressed. Sam felt himself blushing.

“Pays the bills.” He rubbed his nape and ducked his face, searching himself for something else to say, before he remembered that James was probably eager to get back into his apartment after a long night’s work.

But before he could say “I should let you turn in” and unleash all of the mental images of James and _bed,_ Puddin’ decided to emerge from the bushes, where she had been stalking a bird that wasn’t having it. The small wren flew off cheeping, and James grinned at her.

“When Daddy’s away, the kitty cats play?” James cooed, and Sam watched him hunker down and gesture to the cat. “C’mere, precious.” He made a low kissing noise with _that mouth_ , and Puddin’ watched him, transfixed, tail flicking back and forth. Sam tried to ignore the way heat pooled in his groin at the sound of that voice indirectly referring to him as “Daddy.” James made more “pssh-pssh” noises and snapped those long, neatly manicured fingers, and boy, that did it. Puddin’ came trotting over, pausing just shy of his hand. She meowed up at him in greeting. Sam’s eyebrows shot into his hairline.

“Wait… what?” The cat purred and nudged at James’ hand, giving him those small, trilling meows in the back of her throat that meant she was flirting. Sam was dumbstruck.

“Hello, pretty girl,” James offered fondly, and his smile was indulgent and gorgeous, and Sam was transfixed, too, not giving a damn that he was about to be late for work. Puddin’ just kept purring, bumping her cheek against James’ knee, leaning up into his caresses. 

“Watch out for her bad ear. She doesn’t like it when you scratch behind that one.”

“She keeps turning that side of her head this way,” James argued, chuckling, and Sam was just about done. _How dare she._ Sam spent the better part of six months trying to win Puddin’ over, and at _least_ that long trying to break the ice with his hot neighbor, and now look at the two of them, canoodling like it was old times.

Sam was _so_ done.

“That cat hates _everybody._ ” James gave him a disbelieving look.

“This sweet girl right here? No way.”

“I’m not kidding! To be honest, she belongs to my baby sister Ray-Anne. I’m keeping her for a while until she moves somewhere more pet-friendly. She’s probably the most high-maintenance roommate I’ve ever had.”

That prized a real laugh out of him, and Sam loved the crinkles around his eyes. He gave the cat another hearty, scruffy scratch behind her neck before he got up to go inside. “See you around, precious,” he told her. “Later, Sam.”

“Uh. Yeah. G’night, Barnes.”

Puddin’ meowed after him once he locked himself inside, completely bereft.

“Yeah, you and me both, furball.” Sam was irritated the rest of the way to work about the following:

His cat liked James better than him after just meeting him.  
The feeling appeared to be mutual.  
His cat knew what it felt like to be caressed by those hands, and flirted with in that deep, rich voice.

How was this even Sam’s life.

*

_Knock, knock, knock._

Sam answered the door in his undershirt and a pair of slightly holey, faded Nike basketball shorts, not expecting company yet. “Just so you know, Ray-Anne, Puddin’s in time-out for clawing up my recliner,” he called out as he unlocked it, not bothering to look out through his peep hole, because who else would it be? But when he pulled it open, James stood there sheepishly, holding Puddin’ cuddled against his chest.

He grinned at Sam, and he felt those damn butterflies taking flight in his gut. “I caught her eyeballing the bird feeder a little while ago. It might be her dinner time.”

“Every waking hour is dinner time for Miss Thing, here. She answers to the sound of the can opener.”

The cat was squinting back at Sam, transmitting the silent message of _Stop making me look bad._ Puddin’ was no doubt planning to hack up a spectacular hairball into his sneaker like she did _last_ time. Sam missed those sneakers. James was scratching her cheeks, and there she went, purring up a storm, claws clutching at his sleeve but not deep enough to dig in. James handed Sam the cat, who was hanging on like the Velcro strap of an old-school Reebok high-top, meowing in protest. “Bad girl, you know better than that,” Sam chided. “Shameful.” Hussy, he thought. His cheeks heated up when James’ hands brushed his when he handed the cat over. Sam tried to ignore the gleeful voices in his consciousness crying out _The cat’s been climbing all over this man, and you’re holding the cat! Absorb his touch by osmosis! The hotness might rub off on you!_ Those voices got him into trouble every time, damn it.

“Don’t be upset with her. She and I were having a nice visit.” Sam could tell; his dark shirt was covered in gray cat hair. Sam really needed to take the cat to the groomer’s soon. She was shedding like mad in the summer heat.

“She still gets naughty points for the bird feeder,” Sam said.

“Fair enough. It was worth a try, wasn’t it, precious girl?” Bucky reached out and chucked her chin while Sam was still holding her, and that was probably the only reason why she wasn’t struggling to get down the way she usually did. _Kiss-up._

“Thanks for bringing her back.”

“Any time.” James tucked his hands in his pockets and backed up a little, eyes flitting over Sam’s casual togs. “Hope I didn’t interrupt _your_ dinner? You look like you’re in for the night.” Sam silently wished he was more presentable, but something in James’ expression told him he didn’t mind what he saw.

“No. Uh, you didn’t… interrupt anything.”

“Okay. Anyway. I’ll let you get back to whatever you were doing. ‘Night, Wilson.”

“’Night.”

*

It made sense. Puddin’ was getting fatter. It _had_ to be James sneaking her goodies. She was constantly sneaking over his balcony while James lay reading on his chaise, and Sam occasionally heard him murmuring endearments to her in what sounded like Russian - _Russian_ , and Sam had a thing for bilingual men – and when Sam would just _happen_ to walk by under the guise of getting his mail (or, just when he was getting his mail, it needed to be done) and peer over the edge of his fence. James would stare up at him a little guiltily.

“She made herself comfortable. I hated to move her.” The cat was shamelessly plastered across James’s lap. His thighs were thick, toned, and _mouthwatering._ Lucky cat. _Damn it._

Sam gripped the tops of the fence planks a little too tight, even though his voice was casual. “Smart move. This one gets unpleasant when you interrupt her nap.”

“Awwww. No, she doesn’t, does she, pusskins?”

Oh, boy.

“No, she doesn’t,” James cooed, and Sam thought Hot Neighbor was channeling his sister’s evil spirit. What _was_ it about his cat that made grown-ass adults babble? It didn’t help that it was adorable when James did it. But Puddin’ was eating it up, in full lean-and-squint mode, just purring away. She kneaded James’ chest with her paws.

Sam had to look away.

But when he glanced down again, he noticed something small, gray and mouse-shaped on the little side table where James’ glass of iced tea was resting. “What is that?”

“What’s what?”

“That thing. Is that… a cat toy?” Sam’s smile was incredulous.

“Just a trinket I picked up when I was out and about.”

“Do you have any pets?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

Well.

*

Sam was jealous of his cat.

It was ridiculous. He felt _ridiculous_ for it. He was grown. He knew better. Yes, his sister’s cat was no doubt irresistible to people who loved them, and Sam certainly didn’t begrudge Bucky quality time with the little crumb snatcher, but Puddin’ was just so _smug_ and so flagrant about it. Every time she came back into the apartment, she just strutted on by Sam, straight for her Iams bowl, and would just nonchalantly eat a few noisy bites before wandering off to sleep under Sam’s bed. 

“That’s how it is?” Sam called after her. She usually devoured her food, too, but that little display told Sam that she found nourishment somewhere – with someone – else.

Ray-Anne stopped by with Truman on her way to go to Costco. “Need me to pick up anything for her? I was going to get her more food and litter.”

“Go ahead and get it, if you’re going that way, anyway.”

“Wow. Somebody’s looking awfully plush,” Ray-Anne remarked as the cat hopped up beside Truman on the couch and curled up in a ball. He dared one tiny scratch and decided he was good. The cat blinked up at him in annoyance. “She’s gotten heavier, Sam. What are you feeding her?”

“Her Iams. But I think the neighbors are sneaking her food,” he told her, shrugging.

“Wow. Seriously, look at her, Samuel.” Ray-Anne picked her up with a low “oof.” Puddin’ butted her head up under her chin, wanting her mommy to make with the cuddling, already. “She weighs a ton. Sure is happy, though.”

“Sure seems like it.”

Ray-Anne gave him a look. “Hm.”

“What?”

“You look like you’re up to something, Samuel Wilson.”

“Me? Nope. Not a thing.”

“Hm.” Ray-Anne narrowed her eyes. Sam stayed mum. Puddin’ meowed innocently and butted Ray-Anne in the chin again. “Why does she smell like tuna?”

*

Sometimes, the universe did Sam tiny favors. Like the time he managed to double back to the ATM machine to retrieve his card that he had left in the slot before he ended up driving all the way home, or the time that he did his friend a solid and doubled with him and his girlfriend’s bestie for a movie date, expecting another blind date disaster, and she turned out to be a hot number named Monica with natural hair and perfect legs. Or when his paper grocery bag that he walked home with in the rain from the corner store decided to break _after_ he made it safely inside his apartment instead of all over the sidewalk.

Sam went to check his mail after work, bushed and ready for an evening of trash TV and some leftover chicken and pasta. He waved to Stan and Joanie across the way where they were populating the tiny flower bed in front of their door with some silk flowers to spruce it up. He noticed James’ red car in the parking lot and wondered if he had to go to work that night. He wished it was one of those rare days where he would catch him napping by the pool side, shirtless and lightly bronzed, delectable-looking in repose like that, and Sam needed to _stop having those thoughts_.

His mailbox seemed to be stuffed full. “Hm.” He hovered by the outdoor trash can, leafing through it and preparing to throw out the junk mailers and credit card offers, when he noticed that not all of them said “Sam Wilson.”

“Oops. Okay. Not mine. Not mine. Not mine.” The mail carrier put James’ mail in his box by mistake. 

…which wasn’t the worst thing in the world, now, was it?

Not at all.

Sam grinned, whistling cheerfully as he strolled across the parking lot and knocked on unit number four’s door. From the other side of it, he heard a stereo being turned down a bit and the sound of couch cushions releasing their burden, heavy footsteps growing closer and making Sam’s stomach flutter in anticipation, because he never _really_ came to James’ door for anything. He would call it an opportunity.

A really, really nice one. James was shirtless again, and Sam mentally picked his jaw up off the ground. “Hey. Your mail ended up in my box.”

“Anything good?” James asked. “Did I win a million dollars?”

“Not today.”

“Wouldn’t have brought it back to me if it was, huh?”

“Welllllllll…” Sam made a “come see, come saw” gesture with his hand. James laughed, and their fingers brushed when he handed him the stack of envelopes. “Not working tonight?”

“Nope. The per diem dispatcher works tonight. I get to recharge my batteries for the next thirty-six hours. And be a complete grub.”

Sam licked his lips and realized he was staring, and why the hell wouldn’t he be? The man was flawless and ripply and had muscles for days, a twelve-pack that made Sam thirsty, maybe even a little lightheaded. _Damn._

“Pardon?” James asked, lips curling into a smirk.

Shit. He’d said that _out loud._

“Uh. Nothing. I’ll let you get back to… whatever. See you ar- Hey.” Sam watched as Puddin’ came wandering around the corner of James’ hallway, or waddling might have been more accurate. She owned that “fat cat lumber” as she moved, and she made a beeline for the kitchen linoleum. “What the…?” James looked sheepish, and he backed up to let Sam peer past him and step up onto his threshold. Puddin’ was hunched over a small, white ceramic dish, munching away on some soft food. “Sonofa… Seriously?”

“Sorry. Really, I am. But I couldn’t resist,” James admitted guiltily, and he shrugged at Sam, and it was adorable and he still wasn’t wearing a shirt, and his smile was pulling him in. He was a goner for it. “She’s just such a sweetheart. I had to spoil her a little.”

“That’s the good cat food.” Sam saw the empty Iams can on the counter beside the can opener. Sam typically gave her the dry food, something Ray-Anne insisted on, since she knew best. Sam glanced around and noticed that there was a fishing pole cat toy with a tuft of feathers at the end of the string, a universal favorite of cats everywhere, and one of those wide, double disc toys with the ball in the middle of it that he saw advertised on TV, and other tiny stuffed mice, catnip pouches, toys with bells on the end… Good grief.

“Just a taste.”

“I wondered if I was imagining that she’s gotten bigger,” Sam muttered, chuckling. “Okay. I’m not imagining things.”

“She’s a great dinner date,” James mentioned. “Hope you weren’t too worried about where she was. She likes to keep me company sometimes when I’m home during the day.”

“So you’re running a kitty day care?”

“Bet it looks that way.”

“You didn’t have to do all this,” Sam told him. “This was nice.”

“No big deal. I like cats.” James set his mail down on the table and rubbed his nape, tugging on his loose ponytail. His long bangs were falling into his eyes, and Sam longed to tuck them back. “And to be honest, Sam… I know this sounds corny, but… yeah. I was hoping that maybe she wasn’t the only one I could have over to dinner.”

“What, now?”

“Wanna have dinner with me?”

Sam knew he was grinning like an idiot. He didn’t care. 

“As long as Iam’s isn’t on the menu, then sure. Just let me go change.”

*

Half an hour later, they sat shoulder to shoulder on the couch, both in loose shorts and bare feet. The empty pizza box was already back on the kitchen counter and the dishes were in the sink. Puddin’ purred from James’ lap, enjoying the attention of her two favorite men while they watched “America’s Got Talent.” She even behaved when Sam reached over to pet her, which was nice for a change. 

“I wondered why she was getting bigger,” Sam murmured. “You’re sneaky, y’know that?”

“How can you resist this cute little face, though? She’s such a sweetheart, Sam.” James emphasized his point by giving Puddin’s ears a hearty rub, tugging on their tips. “And the thing is, nice cats usually have nice owners. It’s like a rule.”

“A rule? That’s a rule?” Sam cocked his brow, and James nodded.

“Uh-huh. Good pet mojo. That’s how that works.”

“You’ve got a point. Cats have good instincts, or at least that’s what Ray-Anne’s always telling me. She doesn’t trust anyone who her cat doesn’t like. Mind you, this cat rarely likes _anybody_ -“

“So, were her instincts right?” James asked.

“About what?”

“About me?” 

The smile he gave Sam was almost bashful. Hopeful.

Sam nodded. “Yeah.”

“Good.” 

Sam removed his hand where he’d been tentatively stroking Puddin,’ letting it rest in his lap. His breath caught when he felt James reach for his hand. His skin was warm and dry, and Sam wondered if James felt his pulse jump and skip. He turned his hand and let James lace his fingers through his. It felt right. It felt uncomplicated, and warm fuzzies were racing over Sam’s skin, and he wanted to drown in those gray-blue eyes. James licked his lips, then caught the bottom one between those perfect teeth. 

“Good,” Sam agreed.

Puddin’ sounded jealous as hell when he kissed James, meowing up at them both in annoyance Sam supposed it was only fair.

 

FIN.


End file.
